under the torrent of her twenties
and three fifths of phillips
i'm watching her erode.
moving but not, shouting her silence
in a room of former friends.
the air is like a stone,
out of which she carves a temple
to life without regrets,
white rock sanctum
to hide from something she might remember
or maybe never knew.
but i'm just a sidewalk witness to the crash
too far to shout stop,
too close to ever forget.
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